


The Iron Bank Will Have Its Due

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Healer Greg Lestrade, Hurt/Comfort, I know very little about Game of Thrones, Iron Bank, M/M, Maester Gregory, Mycroft Whump, Mycroft is Tycho Nestoris' cousin, Protective Greg, Sick Mycroft, caring Greg, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27485380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Mycroft is Chief Underwriter for the Iron Bank, a cousin of Tycho Nestoris and Head of the Holmes Clan. When he is poisoned by a trusted man, his colleagues do the only thing they can think of. They are directed by one of the House of the Red Hands healers to send for a reclusive visitor to the House, one Gregory LeStrade, younger son of the infamous Ser Davos Grigoris LeStrade, and renegade Maester. Gregory is not what he seems, and as Mycroft recovers from the attack, he learns more about the secretive recluse who saved his life.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	The Iron Bank Will Have Its Due

**Author's Note:**

> The Gods only know where this one came from. I've had it hanging about for a bit and managed to finish it because I've been hit by a bout of writers' block on another story. I confess I do not know a huge amount about GoT, and I have not watched the series through, nor have I read the books. IHowever, I've seen the bits with Mark, and wondered that Mycroft would make a perfect officer of the Iron Bank, and Greg...well, Gregory as a caregiver is my favourite. I have used the GoT Wiki, just t check a few things, and apologise if this has bits that don't work. Look at it as an AU of both Sherlock AND GoT. It is a bit whump on poor Mycroft, and I'm not sure whether to take it to another chapter, but we shall see. Doubtless you will share your thoughts with me. Please comment of if you think it works or not.

_Illness was abominable. Unjust. A sentence to purgatory for being guilty of nothing whatsoever_ …pain wracked his body and he curled in on it, groaning… _Purgatory_...

_The din of battle was loud in his ears…Choking smoke and the iron tang of blood in his nostrils… The screams of men and horses in their death throws… Ringing of sword on sword, thudding of axe on shield...Dragon fire strafing the ground...Shrieking men all around him, a chaotic sea of violence...Limbs hacked off...fire burning...agony...death…spears piercing his belly..._

“Easy there, it’s only a dream. Steady now…” A soothing voice, rough-hewn unpolished timbre. Gruff and male, untutored in its honesty, he trusted it immediately. _Why? I don't trust..._

“I’m dy...dying…” A husk of a voice, barely there. _Is that really me?_

“No, you’re not, not any more at any rate.” _So I was dying?_ “You have been very ill but you’re over the worst. You’re safe now…” _How do you know?_

“I fear…,” a cough, a convulsive swallow, the taste of bile at the back of his throat, “...I am going...to be sick…”

“Alright, let’s see what we can do about that…” His hand was grasped firmly and turned over, and fingers pressed on the inner skin of his wrist, feeling for...something. 

“Ow...hurts…” he hissed. He was appalled at the weak and tremulous sound of his own voice.

“I know, and I’m sorry. This will hurt but only for a moment. Promise.” The fingers settled, pressed hard, and a dull ache flared along his arm, and the pressure intensified sharply enough that he gasped with the pain… then came relief so sudden it was a shock, his nausea subsided and his body relaxed heavily into his feather mattress.

“How do you feel now? Any better?” He failed to muster the energy to reply, nodding instead. “That’s good. Just rest. Sleep if you can.” 

**0000000**

“Where am I?” 

“Safe. In your own bed, so don’t worry.”

“You are sure I’m not dying?”

“Not now. I won’t let you.” There was amusement in the tone. 

“You won’t?”

“No, I won’t. Promise.”

“If...if you say so…”

“I do.”

“Who are you?” No answer. A soothing hand on his side, stroking gently. 

_Rest. Sleep now._

**0000000**

Waking was purgatory. The monumental struggle required to drag himself out of the depths of oblivion and pain were hardly worth the effort. He heard a despairing groan and realised it was his own.

“With us at last?” That by-now familiar voice, pitched low. “That’s good.”

“Is it? I fear I am still alive…” 

“Yes, it would appear that you are.” 

“I am so terribly glad that this _purgatory_ is not in fact the afterlife…” Purgatory was a good word to emphasise, to pop the P and spit the rest out like a bad fruit pit. “If this is what awaits us on the other side of the veil, then I’ll pass…” That elicited a chuckle. He could not recall when his words had last kindled such genuine warmth in a response. 

“I’m afraid this is real, m’lord. You will regrettably have to face it sometime…”

“I am aware…” He cracked an eye open and saw... _a vision_. His... _nurse_...for want of a better description, was leaning over him, large hands employed in straightening the blankets. The man was tall, broad through chest and shoulder, with a strong jaw and easy smile showing white, slightly uneven teeth. Pepper and salt hair frayed the outline of his head, the short strands as silver as the rings of the chain he wore around his neck. _Chain?_ Mycroft focused on the rings. They were beautifully hand-forged, of varying sizes, some decorated, some plain, some so bright they scintillated light and others so dull they seemed to swallow light completely. 

“You’re a Maester?” He looked up and into the man’s eyes, and found himself drowning. It took away what little breath his suffering had left him with. Every desirable shade of brown stared back, encompassed in those fathomless orbs; deep chestnut, dark cocoa, hazel glints, umber facets… Wrinkles crinkled the skin at the corners as he smiled, and he was smiling now. 

“You alright there? Come on, breathe for me. In...and out...in again...and out...There, that’s better. You took a bit of a turn there, hm? How are you feeling now?”

“I…” he swallowed, hard, trying to muster his straying wits. “I am… I just…ugh...”

Another chuckle. “I don’t usually have that effect on people.” Another grin, showing teeth again. “Call me Gregory. Although I have been known to respond to ‘Hey, You’, I do prefer my own name.” He knew there was but a heartbeat’s hesitation before a smile tugged his normally severe mouth upward involuntarily. “There, a smile. That’s good. Nice to know I haven’t completely lost my touch…”

“Every lord needs his fool.” _Damn my tongue, why did I say that? I will keep my eyes closed so that I may not see his crestfallen look because I think him a fool...I cannot look on eyes that will resemble a kicked puppy… How to remedy my words…?_ “Every lord and king needs someone to remind them they are human...Too many think they are gods on earth. If others were reminded of their mortality, we may not have had so many problems…” 

“You sound as if you speak from experience?”

“Too much…”

“Yes, well...I wouldn’t know. The likes of me do not usually mix with such exalted company.”

“They never bother to extend their skills to healing, although they too often require the services of one…”

“True enough, m’lord. I find they are more concerned with death; of their enemies, their rivals, their criminals…even their friends sometimes.”

“Our leaders need more honour and integrity. Too few own those merits these days.” 

“High ideals. Unrealistic, perhaps.”

“The Iron Bank has high standards. It seeks the same standards in both king and commoner alike…Someone has to maintain order amid the chaos…” 

“Well, seems to me that those matters are a little too weighty for the sickroom, m’lord. Let your mind rest until your body can return you to your lofty considerations.” Those brown eyes—which was tantamount to an insult to call their colour by such a bland name—watched their patient with warmth and concern, and not a little humour. _He’s teasing me...._

“Here, drink this, please…” 

A cup was laid against his lips, tipped gently, and the liquid washed over his tongue. He swallowed, despite the taste being slightly too sweet. “Dreamwine?” he murmured, recognising it.

“Just to help you rest, don’t fret. It will settle your aches and pains, and your sore stomach too.” 

Sleep was not something he wanted, but it was something he needed. He hadn’t realised his stomach was sore either, but it was. Reluctantly he closed his eyes on those that were watching him, and lulled by the drug, drifted into a gentle healing slumber. 

**0000000000000**

Gregory watched his patient with vigilance and care. It had been a long four days since he had been demanded from the sanctuary of the House of the Red Hands. He knew who had told them he was there. The healer who had initially been summoned had suggested him, probably because there was no member of the Hands who would know what to do for the man. In all honesty, Gegory couldn't muster any anger at his presence being revealed. The fact that there was a rogue Maester living at the house was not something of a secret any more. The man's colleagues were desperate, one of their own having been cruelly poisoned. At least they had the man responsible, someone who had disappointingly turned out to be a trusted servant of many years. He had buckled under _persuasion_ , and told them everything. Now he was swinging from a rope, and his family was destitute as a result. Gregory didn’t agree that the man’s family should suffer for his sins but after making discreet inquiries, he learned that they had been taken in by a relative, the general sense of care and compassion of Braavosi people winning through and showing mercy. It was a rare thing these days. 

He puzzled over the man in the bed. His colleagues had just about demanded his presence, which didn’t get very far. When they had begun to beg, and started making promises, he had started to listen. When the Iron Bank makes you a promise, it is usually worth listening to. The moment he had laid eyes on his patient, though, that was the clincher. 

“He’s been poisoned…” he remembered declaring, eyes taking in the pallor of his patient’s skin, the noticeable rash, the high fever, and a number of other, less obvious, cues. “I need clean hot water. Bring me a wash bowl, a jug of hot water I can wash with, and clean towels, and soap. I need hot water in another jug, with cups, to make a tisane... _a tea_ ,” he had added at their blank faces. “Hot enough to infuse, not hot enough to scald. Bank the fire in this room too, it’s too cold…” He issued clear orders which were obeyed instantly. He had seen the cup by the bed, and sniffed the contents, recognising the scent immediately, even masked as it had been by spiced wine. “Firepine,” he remembered declaring. “Who the hell has access to Firepine in this place?” That had obviously started someone thinking, and they had tracked down the poisoner in a very few days, a missing servant, a trusted man… 

It felt odd in a way, taking command, very much the expert in the room. These normally upright men, soberly dressed in dark purple and green and black, hurried to obey where he imagined once they might have bridled against scurrying off like servants. Again, he wondered at the man in the bed. _Who is he and how important?_ A high ranking official of the Bank, that was certain. Yet to go by these men and their responses, also a friend, a valued companion. He had unpacked his healer’s equipment in thoughtful mein, sorted his herbs and spices and potions carefully, readying his arsenal against the battle he knew he was in for. The outcome would be largely down to how soon they had caught this, how strong his patient was, and how much stamina he could call upon. Mentally raising his battle standard, Gregory prepared to march into the struggle for the man’s life.

That had been four days ago. The outcome had been very much in the lap of the Gods. He had also learned a little more about the man in the bed; Mycroft Holmes, Representative of the Iron Bank of Braavos, high ranking official, cousin to Tycho Nestoris, and friend of at least half the people who had been willing to scurry around and fetch anything that he, Gregory, asked them for. They had brought him a truckle bed into the room for him to rest on, not that there was much of that. However, they had begun to take turns at watching the patient for a couple of hours here and there without complaint, allowing Greg to rest, waking him if there was any change, or when he asked them to rouse him so he could administer medicine. They had brought him decent food; warmed spiced ale, fresh baked cakes, bread, fruit, cheese, lean cuts of cold meat, a generous slice of meat pie.

“I will have little idea how much damage has been done until he wakes properly,” Gregory remembered saying to these sober somber men. “Assuming he wakes, which in all honesty, I cannot guarantee.”

“But Maester,” one of them had said cautiously, “is there nothing more to be done?”

“I have done everything anyone possibly could, and a few things nobody else but me would know how to do. I’m afraid it is up to him now. If you believe in a God, then I suggest you pray to them.” 

Yet Mycroft Holmes _had_ awoken from his trials, and he seemed to be recovering, if slowly. 

What had surprised him was the regard that his patient had bestowed on him. There was no mistaking the sense of humour behind the disciplined exterior. However, there was also no mistaking the man’s attraction to him. Those eyes, the dark blue of the sea beneath a storm cloud, had fixed on his and liked what they saw. He had witnessed the dark pupils widen under his gaze, a response that was beyond anyone’s ability to mask. Gregory admitted to himself that he really had no idea what to do with that. Holmes was not a classically attractive man, by any means. His nose was too hawk-like, his frame too lean (even leaner now, although that could be remedied). He was too familiar with projecting a persona that brooked no argument, that took its dues, that drove hard bargains and expected to be treated with respect to waste time on being physically alluring. However, those eyes were compelling, and the voice was pleasant, the humour unexpected. Gregory was looking forward to getting to know the man better. If, that is, he could surmount his own dark past….

**0000000**

“Steady now...only another dream…” Mycroft was roused from a nightmare sometime in the early hours of the morning. The curtains were drawn over the windows, shutting out the night. The candles were out, the oil lamp turned low. 

“Ungh...wha’...what?” Arms thrashed, were snared and stilled in a gentle grasp. 

“A dream, a nightmare," Gregory explained, patiently. "Don’t worry, it’s over, you’re awake now…” 

A litany of soothing reassurances reached his ears. _Nobody soothes me_. There was no one to give him reassurances. It simply did not happen. If anything he was always giving others reassurance; reassurance that the Bank would back them, reassurance that their loan would be granted, reassurance that come what may, the Bank would have its due… _Well, perhaps that wasn’t actually reassurance, rather more an affirmation, an avowal, a promise..._

He tried to slow his breathing, calm his heart. “So real…” he gasped, and it had been. A horror of blood and war, his recurring terror. He was a banker. Bankers did not have night terrors of war and pain and blood… _Why do I not have nightmares containing late accounts, or mounting debts, or being buried under a landslide of unfinished ledgers?_

“I know, dreams can seem very real sometimes," his saviour replied. "Just rest. Unless you want to talk about it. That helps sometimes.”

“I’m not certain I can…”

“That’s alright too. No pressure.”

“No, I mean...it is too nebulous. War, death, blood, and myself in the middle of it, in the eye of the storm so to speak, weaponless. Beyond that, there is no...sequence, no images, nothing more. Just the terror of it, the bodies, the fire, the blood…”

"The fire?"

"Dragons. There are always dragons. three of them…" _and a pale haired girl,_ his mind supplied. He had no idea what that meant. He never saw her face. "It isn't personal experience. I have never lifted a sword in my life.” _nor seen a dragon either_. “It’s just...a dream, a fabrication." _Or a prophecy_ , his mind supplied. It had been something his mother had a talent for, apparently. To listen to his father, though, it was less than useless, her visions had never told them anything of benefit. She had died when Mycroft was young, leaving behind three children. Mycroft was good at figures, and his father had dumped him in a monastery when he was ten, hoping for one less mouth to feed. His younger brother had been taken in by their Uncle Rudy, their mother's brother, who was childless. Sherlock had gone to university, and was now a tutor there himself. 

“Metaphorical, probably," Gregory offered. "Just rest your body, and we can talk. Or I can talk and you can listen, just to soothe you.” _Nobody soothes me.._.

“Why are you still here?” 

“What? What do you mean?”

“What _are_ you doing here?”

“I’m here because I’m assigned to care for you…”

“No. I meant...why have you stayed?”

“Because I’m…”

“No, not...damn it all, not the _reason_. I know you are a healer, and I know you were sent for. No, I want to know why you haven’t walked out yet…”

“Why would I?”

“I am…" There was a pause, heavy with things unsaid. "...hard work," he added eventually, regretfully. 

“M’Lord Holmes, none of this is your fault, you know. You are recovering from sickness. I...why would you think I would leave?”

“I am...not...not an easy person to deal with.”

“Who is? Seriously, we are all different. So far, you are no more or less difficult than anyone else I have encountered in the course of my work.”

“Wait. You’ll see. Nobody stays for long…” _Silence. He’s thinking. Working it through. Eventually he’ll realise...they always do…._

“M’Lord, what has brought this on?”

“I…” _deep breath, still thy traitorous tongue…_ “I am... _fatigued_. Perhaps I know not what I say…”

“Perhaps. So, rest your head, and see if you can’t sleep some more. I am here, and I will stay, regardless of what you think. I am staying until you are well again.”

“You will see, and understand, sometime soon.”

**00000000000**

Greg watched his patient from his own truckle bed, leaning against the pillows which were supported by the wall behind his head. The man was a restless sleeper, perhaps not in his right wits yet. He was worried by odd things, which wasn’t a surprise. However, why he thought Greg would leave him, he was at a loss to work out. Talking to his colleagues Mycroft appeared to be a supportive generous man who didn’t want to appear to be caring about anything or anyone. He projected indifference and a shield of frosty hauteur, but quietly sent money to charity, his _own_ money. The interest rate on the loans he arranged on behalf of the bank was higher for those who were rich and indifferent to their people, lower for those who were honest workers and poorer. On the one hand, Holmes could seem cold and dispassionate. On the other hand, he seemed to be the soul of compassion and honour. An odd mix…

 **00000000000**

He smelled foul to his own nostrils. Mycroft woke to soft snores from the truckle bed in the corner, his carer deep asleep, oblivious. He felt sticky and uncomfortable, but he was still so weak…Lifting the covers slightly to sniff experimentally only made his nose wrinkle in disgust. 

“Maester?” No answer. “Gregory?” The sound of his name woke the man in the bed so quickly that he nearly tipped the cot over in his haste to rise, and he was still fully clothed, Mycroft noticed. 

“M’Lord? You alright?” Gregory gathered himself and stood, making his way quickly to the bedside.

“I am sorry that I woke you, Gregory. I feel… simply _horrid…_ ”

“Horrid how exactly?”

“Can you not tell? Does your own nose betray you? I am... _foul_. How anyone in their right senses could come near me right now is beyond my ken.”

The man actually took an experimental sniff, and had the gaul to smile. “Only sweat, m’lord. Gone a bit sour, but nothing more noxious. You’ve had a fever, and lain in bed a few days, so ‘tis only to be expected. You need a bath, that’s all.”

“I am still so...damnably weak. I don’t have the strength to bathe. Am I to stay like this forever?"

“What? No, no. You'll find things slow but you will improve, with time. I do understand how difficult this is for you, but...look, I’ll help you, but it’s early yet. When it’s light, we’ll get you your bath and I’ll strip the bed and get you fresh sheets.” 

“There are night staff here,” Mycroft pointed out. “They are used to being called upon at all hours.”

“What, even to draw a bath?”

“Even to draw a bath, yes.”

“Very well, then. Where might I find them? The Kitchens?” At his nod, Gregory gathered his robes around him and added, “Then I shall return post haste.” The next moment he was gone, just like that. Quick as a wink, off like a bowshot. 

Some time later, Mycroft was roused again by people moving around him, the sounds of water pouring, and low voices. A hip bath had been positioned near the fire, the water in it steaming gently. A screen had been carefully positioned behind the bath, both a privacy barrier to shield the bather from anyone coming in the door, and to ward off drafts. The door closed on whatever servant had been helping arrange the bath, and Gregory appeared by his side again.

"Your bath awaits, m'lord, and we're alone. The servants have gone. It's just us."

He stepped close and slid an arm beneath his patient's shoulders, and the other one under his knees and hefted the man up before he could articulate a protest. Mycroft found himself born aloft in strong arms. Somewhere along the way he was divested of his nightshirt, but he could recall no fussing to get it off, and then he was being lowered gently into warm water, the cloth-draped back of the tin bath warm and firm under his spine. 

He was washed then, a soapy flannel skimmed across his skin, laving the sweat from his body carefully. It was firm enough to clean, not hard enough to hurt. He was encouraged to lean forward against a supporting arm—Gregory had rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms to Mycroft’s gaze—and his back was gently scrubbed. He dozed, made drowsy and compliant with the heat. Water dribbled deliciously over his scalp and down his back, and he was aware that his hair, never very long in the first place, must have been shorn even shorter to help cool him in his fever. Nails raked lightly through the fuzz that was left and he almost keened softly with the pleasure of it. Eyes closed, his mind drifted in a haze, blissfully numbed to embarrassment as his intimate area was gently cleansed. Arms, chest and legs followed, even toes and fingers, but by that point he was almost insensible. 

He had never before appreciated how good it felt to be clean. He was a man of fastidious cleanliness as a rule. He changed the linens he wore at least twice a day, bathed once a week, washed himself daily. To be deprived of that facility was utter torture. To be given it back was bliss. He was finally laid against the back of the bath, its supportive curve cradling him. The heat of the fire played on his face and chest, drying him, and the soporific warmth of the water rippling around his nethers soothed him even more. 

He was dimly aware of someone moving about the room; quietly padded footfalls, the soft susurrations of fabric, and gentle huffed breaths of mild exertion reached his ears. The someone was overly attentive to making as little noise as possible, and obviously succeeding. By the time a gentle hand on his shoulder roused him sufficiently to open his eyes, the bed was freshly made, and a hot cup of something sat on the night stand, steam curling into the air above it. The scent of his favourite tea reached his nose, eliciting a soft delighted smile.

“You made me tea?”

“I had them make some for you, as they know which one you favour. You need to drink, replace all that fluid you just lost. I figured it best to get you something you would like, rather than something you may not find as agreeable."

“Thank you, Gregory.” He was lifted again out of the bath, and this time wrapped in warm towels. Those hands dried him with such care it almost made him want to weep. Nobody had ever looked after him this way. He was settled beneath clean cool sheets and against comfortable pillows, a fresh nightshirt on, the fabric soft against his clean skin. Gregory presented him with his tea and he inhaled appreciatively. It both smelled and tasted perfect. Sighing in contentment, he watched drowsily as Gregory tidied away soiled bed linen and drained the hip bath away down the garderobe. He stoked the fire a little and came to sit on the bed.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. I am _very_ grateful for your care of me. One forgets how good it feels to be clean.”

“Cleanliness contributes greatly to recovery,” Gregory said sagely, as though reciting from a text.

“Indeed. Your diligence is commendable.” 

"My patients deserve nothing less than my best, m'lord." Mycroft drifted to sleep with that phrase on repeat in his head. 

**00000000000**

“Who are you, exactly?” It was the sixth day of his illness, the second since he had properly roused enough to be aware of his surroundings. Despite the man’s diligence and care, the intimate nature of his nursing, Mycroft had never thought to question his nurse as to his trustworthiness. _I am Mycroft Holmes, of the Iron Bank, cousin to Tycho Nestoris and head of the Holmes Clan_. He should have the utmost security in such a vulnerable time. “You are a Maester?” 

“Did we not determine that already? I am Maester Gregory…” Hesitation in giving over anything more, although all Maesters renounced their family name, titles, and inheritance before they joined the order. To not have a surname was no surprise. “I’m a healer.”

“Somehow, I thought you might be.” _Was that too sarcastic? Soften your tone, idiot. You'll drive him away faster…_ “So, who sent you to me exactly?” 

“Your colleagues secured my services. I was not their first choice, nor perhaps the best…” 

“I don’t understand. How are you here then? If you are not the best choice, what are you?” 

The dark eyes regarded him warily. “I am the _only_ choice…”

**000000000000**

“This is why I prefer numbers.”

“M’Lord?”

“Numbers are less prone to misinterpretation than words, Maester. I understand numbers…” 

“Then let me speak plainly, M’Lord Holmes.”

“Please do.” The brown eyes were guarded, uncertain. 

“Understand that it was with great reluctance that I came here…” The eyes were worried, wary now. “It was demanded that I come, but...my reputation is...perhaps less than your lofty standards would allow…”

“How so?” Mycroft’s interest was piqued. There was more to this man than met the eye. However, just as it looked like Gregory might be going to say something, raised voices could be heard in the corridor outside. Both men turned their heads as the door was flung open and a lean young man flew in, hotly pursued by two servants. 

“I am sorry, m’lord…”

“He wouldn’t be swayed…”

Mycroft waved a weak hand. “It is alright, alright. Go about your business.” The servants looked doubtful but withdrew. “Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

“And when were you going to tell me you had been poisoned?” 

“Poisoned?” Mycroft turned to look at Greg, who wore a guarded expression, wary of this reaction.

“He didn’t tell you,” the newcomer stated. It wasn’t a question. Sharp eyes focussed on Greg, narrowing in... _interest? Curiosity? Suspicion?_

"No, I didn’t tell him," Greg said, bluntly. "It’s enough to cope with waking from a serious sickness as it is, without having to deal with the reason for it so soon. Anyhow, who the hell are you? I am in charge of both this sickroom and its patient and I won’t have him upset.” Gregory had drawn himself up to full height, forming a solid barrier between Mycroft and the younger man. Mycroft was impressed by the formidable creature that had appeared when challenged.

“Maester Gregory, this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft said, by way of introduction. “Sherlock, I am being cared for, as you can see, and I am fine. Now that you have satisfied your curiosity as to whether or not I am alive, please leave us in peace. I can see you later, when I am...more composed.” 

The younger man stared at Greg hard, then at his brother, then back to Greg. “So, you’re a Maester, are you?”

“I am, sir, yes. In charge of your brother’s care. So, please keep your voice down, and modify your behaviour, or I _will_ put you out of this room.”

“How dare you. I’d like to see you try.”

“You will respect this as a sick room,” came the calm reply, “and that my patient—your _brother_ —needs calm and quiet to recover. Do so and I will have no truck with you being here. Do otherwise, and you can leave, or be ejected. Your choice.” Gregory stood there, arms folded across his chest, protective and also implacable. 

“Humph. Little more than a bravo in disguise, I see. You have poor choice in guardians, brother mine.” 

“I beg to differ, Sherlock. However, I am not about to get into a debate with you. Why are you here?”

“Why did your people not call me earlier? I got the message yesterday, Mycroft, only yesterday. I rode nearly all night to get here."

"Dangerous, brother, you could have been set upon…"

Sherlock spat indelicately. "I'd like to have seen them try. Just because I am a Professor does not mean I'm incapable of defending myself. Besides, if I'd been called earlier we may have had a chance to catch the perpetrator…”

“You’re assuming we didn’t,” Gregory said. “The perpetrator is dead, m’lord. He died on the end of a rope yesterday. He was found by the guards, and he confessed, and the family he worked to maintain are now in ruin. What more needed to be done?” 

“You are sure he was the one?”

“Pretty sure,” Greg said, “considering he confessed and told his captors how the deed was done, and what’s more, it was not divulged how your brother was attacked before the man was asked. He fessed up to the poisoning, where he’d got the stuff, and what he did. All spot on." 

“Oh.” The young man sighed dramatically. "So who was he? Most likely someone close to you. Someone who had access.”

Greg shot a look at Mycroft, assessing his patient. “I’m not sure this is the time or place, Sherlock, or whatever your name is. You might be his brother, but I am his physician, and as such, I decide what is or is not right for my patient…”

”Tell me,” Mycroft said. “I wish to know. If it was someone close, they would be from my personal servants then?”

"His name was Kellardin. Tall man of middle years, blond, hair in braids, green eyes.”

Mycroft sighed sadly. “Of course I know him. Kellardin was my personal servant for the last ten years.” 

”I am sorry, Master Holmes.” Gregory murmured, sincerity in his voice. “Are you alright?”

"I will surmise you do not know if someone else had made him do it?" Sherlock said before Mycroft had a chance to reply. "He may have had a sponsor...or he may have been blackmailed. Now we shall never know. Call me in immediately next time…”

“You are assuming there will be a next time.” Mycroft did not sound happy at that thought.

“Bound to be,” Sherlock spat. “There are enough people who hate you.”

“M’lord Sherlock, I do not make empty threats," Greg growled, reminding the young man. "I warned you, so take heed. Kindly do not rile your brother up so much. Is he always like this?” Gregory asked his patient.

“I am sorry, Gregory. Sherlock is nothing if not difficult.”

“I am what you made me,” the young man snapped. “And you,” he said, turning his regard to Greg, “you are not what you seem either…”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft murmured warningly, but the young man would not be deterred.

“No, Mycroft. This man is not what he seems.” The piercing blue eyes turned on him then, raking him bare with their gaze. “You have a past, my friend...I can read it in you. A dark one if I’m any judge. You are perhaps a Maester but you lack their discipline. You allow your heart to rule your head. Not a good trait for a Knight of the Mind. You have not been back home for a long time…Oh, don’t stare like that. It’s not witchcraft. You have a tan, if faded. You have spent some time in warmer climes, but your eyes are those of a Westerosi, your accent that of Highgarden with a smattering of Oldtown. You were trained in the Citadel, all Maesters are, but you are of an age to have returned there years ago.”

“Some Maesters stay with their houses until they die…”

“But there are no Braavosi houses with Maesters at present.”

“How do you know?”

 _“I know_.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft almost pleaded. “Let it lie.”

“I cannot. Not when your life has already been threatened once.”

“I am not going to murder your brother, lad. That’s the last thing I want.”

“And yet, you have not told him your secrets, have you?”

Greg leveled a darkly quelling look but Sherlock looked gleeful. “I thought so. Oh, this is going to be good…”

“Once and for all, stop this,” Mycroft snapped.

“No!” Sherlock snapped back. “You, Graham, or whatever your name is, you are a fraud!”

“I am no fraud. I know what I am, and I make no secret of it.”

“Yet you haven’t told my brother.”

“Not yet, no.”

“Pfft.”

“I will tell him when he’s feeling stronger, and not before.”

“You’ve gone rogue, haven’t you? Oh. Oh! It’s _you_! There have been rumours for weeks about a rogue Maester at the House of the Red Hands. It's you, isn't it? You're the one they're talking about.”

“I fail to see how any of that is your business.”

“Enough!” Mycroft almost yelled. He was losing his stamina so soon…. "Sherlock, leave! Now! I shall see you when I am able.” After casting a rebellious look at both men, Sherlock swept out in a flurry of cloak. However dramatic his exit, the door was not banged shut behind him, merely closed with a soft decisive _clunk._

For a moment, Mycroft and Gregory stared at each other, Mycroft curious, Gregory wary. 

"Will you...tell me?" Mycroft enquired, even though the outburst had taken a lot out of him. “Please?” For a moment, Mycroft wondered if Gregory wasn't going to say anything. Then he slumped into the nearby chair.

“I am...or rather I _was_ , a LeStrade,” Gregory said, voice quiet, eyes downcast. Mycroft had heard of them. Historians had not been kind in recording the family’s past deeds. “I do not come from the most honourable of lineages. Indeed my ancestors have lied, cheated, murdered… I hated being a Strade when I was a child. My mother was a Lannister, and I suppose, coming as she did from that illustrious family, she too was an anomaly. She was quiet and modest and kind. Quite unsuited to my father, although he loved her in his own way. The Lannisters cut her off though, and by inference, cut me off too. I may be a Lannister by bloodline but that’s an end of it.”

“How did a Lannister end up being married to a LeStrade?”

“Not by honest means, I can vouch for that. Ser Davos Gregoris LeStrade was not necessarily a good man, but he was a clever one. Mother only gave him two sons though, and we were both named after him. She was not exactly a shining example of womanhood, in my father’s eyes, giving him two children only. My eldest brother, Davos, inherited, and I was sent away to join the Maesters…”

**0000000**

_“Pack your things, boy. You’re to travel within the hour…” His father had blown through his door like the east wind, bringing change and disruption the day after his eleventh birthday. The day had passed uneventfully, with only one present, no accolades, no party, nothing. He looked up from the book he was reading, an herbal that was his only present, from his mother._

_“Father…?”_

_“It is all arranged. You are to go with Maester Hannis and Maester Fryth. They have agreed to take you to the Citadel in Oldtown, and you will be admitted into the ranks of the Maesters. You will learn to be...whatever your talents dictate. Do not keep them waiting, boy.”_

_“Father...Why?”_

_“Your brother is my heir, and you...it is tradition, boy. The younger joins the Maesters, renounces his birthright, so no challenge to the heir is presented. You know this.”_

_“Yes, but…”_

_“No, boy. You are leaving. Today. That is the end of it.”_

_“Mother…?”_

_“Your mother is otherwise engaged. Get a move on, boy. Do not shame me.” And within the hour, he was packed, dressed for travel, and mounting his pony, Lyssa, to accompany these dour silent men on his new journey, searching for a last sight of his mother through tears of sorrow._

“I was packed off without explanation or a chance to say goodbye. It’s lucky for me I was a clever child. Learning was easy for me. I was eleven when I went to the Citadel, and I never saw my mother again. Or the rest of my family for that matter. I never looked back, either. I was told she died in labour with my father’s third child, a daughter, but I didn’t find out until six months after it happened. I was just turned fifteen. They told me neither my mother nor the baby survived, and I remember feeling nothing at all. When I finished my formal education there, and I was choosing my career path, I decided to study healing in her honour. I studied herblore, and poisons, and nobody knows more about them than I. Doesn’t sit well with some folk. I scare them…”

“I can imagine,” Mycroft agreed, feeling a frisson travel down his own spine. “One who knows how to treat poisoning also knows how to accomplish it.”

“Exactly,” Gregory agreed, a frown pulling his brows together. “I have only ever used my skills to heal. I have always refused to make poisons of any kind, which doesn't sit well with some folk. I also try to keep such knowledge quiet. However, sometimes it becomes necessary to divulge it.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” Mycroft smiled, a little grimly, but nevertheless sincerely.

“That I can believe,” Gregory said. “Those of your...profession, you know how to keep confidences."

“I will take that as a compliment,” Mycroft murmured, one eloquent eyebrow raised. "So, you are well travelled then? You are a long way from home.”

“Yes…I have not been back... _home,_ since I left it.”

“Home is no longer home, I would wager.”

“You are a representative of the Iron Bank, m’lord. I very much doubt that you risk anything on a wager of any kind.”

Mycroft allowed himself a smile, trying for enigmatic. “Perhaps,” he said. “Maybe I choose to live dangerously from time to time.”

“M'lord, please, do not take this in the wrong way, but...I hope you realise that some things are private? I very much doubt you would be inclined to tell me everything about yourself, if asked.” 

Mycroft inclined his head a little, acknowledging the truth of it. “However, I am not in a position of trust," he pointed out. "You are. You are here because my colleagues obviously had no compunction in hiring your services. They were desperate. However, if you wish to remain… What is it about you that would cause me to mistrust you? Over and above what you have already revealed, of course.” 

For a second time, he thought Gregory was not going to reply. The eyes were downcast again, but this time there was a stubborn set to shoulders and brows. Mycroft found himself regretting his challenge. _Do I need to know?_ Everything was screaming at him to find out, but...if he pushed this, he had a feeling Gregory _would_ leave, just as predicted… _I am difficult...you will leave...you will find out I am cold, and you will go..._ Mycroft’s eyes closed in defeat. _If I trust, betrayal is just around the corner, but am I willing to live with the consequences?_ He opened his eyes. _Time to break with the habit of a lifetime_.

“I…”

“Stop!” Mycroft held up one long-fingered hand in the air between them.

“What?”

“You are…" he sighed softly, "...correct. I have no right to ask. Some things are...better left unsaid. Your care of me has been exemplary, and I should look to that for my proof that you are worthy of my trust and regard.”

“I…” _am lost for words._ “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am. You are quite correct to be guarded. I do not trust easily, but… perhaps it is time I looked to my priorities.” 

“Master Holmes, I understand if you want to know more. Were I in your position I dare say I would want reassurance that my healer was who he said he was. After all, you have just been poisoned by someone you counted as honest and dependable, not to mention a man you knew for more than a decade. As such…”

“No, no… When _you_ feel able to trust _me_ , you may tell me. Until then, let it remain between us as an expression of mutual regard.”

For a moment, Gregory regarded him with an unreadable expression. Then he smiled, the warmth of it shining through. _Like a sunrise_ , Mycroft found himself thinking. _A sunrise after a storm._ Mycroft held out a hand, open, palm up. After a moment’s hesitation, Gregory covered it with his own, his palm unusually warm. The warmth spread down Mycroft’s arm, a tingle through his nerves. Before he could ask what was going on, Gregory interrupted him. 

“I was banished for breaking my vows…” 

The shared confidence was a surprise. Mycroft was thrown by it. “I...what?”

“Vows. I broke them. Banished from the Citadel as a result. I came here to study with the House of the Red Hands. I’ve travelled far and wide, since I left, but I’ve been here a long time, as your brother suggested, in secret. The healer they summoned from the Red Hands, he told your friends about me.” Gregory disengaged their grasp.

“They are _not_ my friends,” Mycroft insisted.

“Bollocks.”

“I beg your pardon?” The profanity was a shock. 

“You heard. Listen, those men value you, beyond your worth to the Bank. You _are_ their friend, whether you believe it or not. They have a regard for you that perhaps you don’t see.”

“I told you, I am difficult. I do not have friends.”

“I beg to differ, Master Holmes. Those men were worried for you, when you were so sick. There was a time when I had no idea if you would live or not, you know? They came to visit, to pay their, for all they knew, last respects. There were tears.”

“Tears?” he scoffed. “I very much doubt it.”

“Doubt it all you wish, but I saw. I was there. Those men consider you as more than a colleague, or I am not a Maester Healer. They would miss you, were you gone.”

“Tears? You are asking me to believe they were genuine tears?”

“Yes, from Master Ballan, and Master Kinnery particularly. ”

“Old sots, the pair of them.” Yet Gregory could see the man was moved. Embarrassed, but moved. “I shall never be able to look them in the eye again.” 

Greg chuckled. “They don’t know you know. I won’t tell them I divulged their secrets."

"Good," Mycroft said. "Please see that you don't."

"Now all our confessions are laid bare, shall we begin again?" Gregory suggested. He held out his hand, palm up. "Maester Gregory, Healer, at your service, m’lord Holmes.” Mycroft covered the hand with his own. 

“Mycroft Holmes. Chief Underwriter for the Iron Bank of Braavos, cousin of Tycho Nestoris and Head of the Holmes Clan. Glad to make your acquaintance.” Again the odd warmth and tingle. “What _is_ that? What are you doing to me?”

“What? Oh...sorry. That is...my _talent_ , if you will. I'm a healer…”

“I know you are.”

“No, I mean...I _heal_. It’s what I can do, just by touch. I...I’m not very powerful, but it’s enough to help, most of the time.” 

“How? I have never even heard of it…”

“Neither had I. I’m told it’s very rare, although instances appear in the ancient manuscripts in the Citadel library…”

“But you did not begin life with that talent?”

“Who knows? It might have been latent.” 

“You say it is not strong. Exactly how strong is it?”

“Not very. It can ease pain, which is useful, but it can’t cure everything. I cannot heal a broken bone by touch alone, even if it encourages the break to heal. I can use it to make someone sleep, but not if they resist me. I can reduce a tumour but not remove it, lest with a knife.”

“You used it on me.” 

“Only because you were open to it, you were exhausted and ready to rest. I just encouraged you to do so, and I eased the discomfort the poison caused you.”

“For which I heartily thank you.”

Greg smiled and nodded. “Appreciated but unnecessary. It is my job, my calling.”

“Humility is a virtue, so they tell me,” Mycroft commented. Greg laughed. Mycroft smiled. _I seem to be able to make him laugh quite easily._

“Well, so is prudence, and I think it would be wise to exercise it a little and get some more rest.”

“If I must.”

“Yes, you must. If you are to heal well, you must give your body what it needs, and what it needs is to recoup strength.”

“You make a wise argument.”

“You are an intelligent man, m’lord. It would serve me nought to treat you like a child. I prefer reasoned argument, which informs, and allows you to make an educated decision on what is best for you.”

“Well said. I shall bow to that judgement, and reasoned argument.” Mycroft relaxed into the pillows and found himself yawning. He closed his eyes. 

“Sleep well, m’lord. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you. I know.”

Silence fell. He could hear Gregory move around, but quietly, then settle, presumably into a chair to read. Mycroft let his mind drift, let his breathing even out, felt his body settle into the comfort of the bed. 

When Greg was certain Mycroft had fallen asleep, he rested a hand on the man’s shoulder and let his gift encourage a deeper sleep. Then he decided to get some rest himself, and laid out on his cotbed. It wasn’t long before he too succumbed to slumber, catching up for lost time. Not before he had made sure the bedroom door was locked though. He wanted them to be secure. There wouldn't be another attempt on Mycroft's life on his watch, or another visit from his disruptive younger brother either.

**0000000**

"So, you are not under the Guild's protection," Mycroft observed as they talked one evening. He had been at pains to learn more about his saviour as the days passed. 

"No, I'm not, technically. I haven't been since I left."

“But you survived. That indicates a high degree of self-sufficiency.”

“When I joined the Guild, I came from a household of good standing, I was a son of that house, with all the early education you might expect. I was taught my letters, and I was taught how to fight. I also begged one of the local Masters at Arms in Oldtown to continue that teaching. I wanted to travel, to broaden my knowledge first hand, well before I was sent away from the Citadel. I couldn’t do that without knowing how to protect myself. I was in no doubt that the world was not a safe place, even as young as I was. I at least had the early training my birthright had given me; archery, horse riding, swordsmanship. I just needed to finish that training to truly become self sufficient.” The two men were ensconced before the fire in two large wing-back chairs that the servants had brought in on Mycroft's request, positioned to either side of the fireplace. It was the evening of the seventh day after Mycroft had roused from his illness, and he had sufficient strength to sit in a chair. They had hot drinks in hand, blankets across their knees, and warm cloaks about their shoulders. 

"How did you pay him? Why else would he agree to continue your training?” Mycroft enquired, even though he could predict the answer.

“I was able to save his daughter from a fever, and he agreed to my request in order to go some way in paying off his perceived debt to me. When I was seventeen, I broke my vow of celibacy, but I managed to keep that secret. I was foolish I suppose. I trusted where I should not have done. The...boy in question, we were together for five years. He eventually wanted me to leave the Order, to live with him as his partner. When I refused he decided to make life difficult, thinking to get me thrown out. Instead of dismissing me, I was banished from the Citadel, in order to learn my lesson. I didn’t even tell Rickard I was being sent away. I was so angry with him. I thought our relationship meant more.”

“Forgive me for asking this but...you did not give him any idea that you would leave the Guild for him?”

“None at all, I swear. We had many conversations about it, he knew that I wasn’t going to leave, because by then my training was my calling. I thought he was fine with it, he said he would be, as long as we had what we had…”

“Sometimes feelings change. Sometimes, you think you know what you want, and then you realise it isn’t enough.” For a moment, Mycroft was silent, then he seemed to shake himself, and looked up at Gregory. “What then? You travelled?”

“Then I spent many years travelling, seeking out knowledge. They offered to take me back eventually, at the Citadel, but honestly, I have never been the model of an honourable Maester.” Gregory sighed, sipping his spiced ale. “I knew I would not be able to keep my oath of celibacy, for I always considered I was not given a choice to become a Maester, so why should I obey vows I had not chosen, vows I had been forced to give while still a child, while I was still naive. I am a man, with a man’s needs. It is unnatural to expect a man to obey such a vow when his order is not even a religious one. So I am not the Maesters’ most upright of members. I advocate allowing women into our ranks, and they do not like that at all. If I were to return, it would be under their conditions. I would not be allowed to train others, not allowed to serve in a King’s retinue, not allowed to move in political circles. If I return, and do not accept their censure, they will imprison me and most likely throw away the key.”

“So why did my colleagues seek you out particularly?”

“Because you were poisoned, and there are none who surpass my knowledge around here.” Gregory almost regretted going over the details again. "The Red Hander who attended you first, he had no idea what to do for you. it was he suggested they summon me."

“What was I poisoned with again? 

“Firepine. It isn’t a readily available substance, certainly not around here, but the apothecary in town agreed to import it for your servant. Kellardin apparently said he wanted to subdue a bad infestation of yellow rats.”

“It may come as a shock but I am not too surprised that Kellardin tried to kill me.”

Gregory frowned. “You’re not?”

“No, I am not. Kellardin was in debt, to me. He owed the Iron Bank a lot of money after a bad investment on a farm. I saw something in the man that I liked, despite his inability to manage money. He was taciturn by nature, but that did not affect me unduly. So I offered him a job, with me, as a household servant. He would pay off his debt every year, I would pay him a wage, a fair one for his service, he would get clothing, food and shelter, all part of the job. Half his wage was sent to his family, the rest paid off his debt. It would only take fifteen years, and he was in his tenth. Obviously he felt unable to face the rest of his indenture.”

“But his family...he was at least helping them, and now they’re destitute.”

Mycroft nodded. “Taken in by family at least. The best they could hope for. The alternatives are much worse. Don’t fret, I would not have left them completely destitute.”

“And you wonder why your people have a regard for you…”

Mycroft shrugged. “Is there…” he asked warily, “any permanent damage, from the poison?”

“There shouldn’t be, or I do not know my job.”

“So...you sound very familiar with the poison?” Mycroft watched Gregory nod.

“You ingested a mixture of whitewort and pellitory and firepine. Either of the former two are safe for human digestion, although whitewort is bitter and can induce vomiting. No, you were given them in a mixture of brandy laced with the resin from the Firepine, which activated their detrimental properties.”

“So what is Firepine?”

“From the Black Mountains, where Kellardin comes from. Most likely he would know that concoction. Using it on rats isn’t uncommon. Using the three together wasn’t necessary though.”

“Insurance?”

“Most like, yes. Firepine can act with either of the two herbs to produce a substance that induces fits and respiratory arrest, so whoever did this was making sure one or the other would work. In short, you nearly suffocated. Do you have any breathing problems now?” 

Mycroft’s deep in-drawn breath confirmed there were no undue problems; no tightness, no pain. “I don’t think so.”

“Time will tell on that score. You’re lucky that my current studies led me here, to the Red Hands' hidden archive. It's so secret that nobody outside of the Head Librarian can even locate it.”

“So how did they find you?”

“I am told by M’lord Randle that when it was suggested I might be able to help, they sent a delgation who rattled the gates and demanded entry and threatened to increase the Library’s interest rate on the loan they took out to buy some rare tomes from the Greyjoys, if I wasn't found and summoned immediately.” 

Mycroft chuckled. “An effective strategy.”

“Apparently they had to roust the Head Librarian out of his bed to locate me. He was not best pleased but nobody else knew where I might be. I met him as he was calling for me, dressed in nothing but his nightshirt and a cloak and carrying a hooded lantern. Not even he would allow an uncovered flame in his library.”

“You were in a hidden archive in the middle of the night? Do you not require sleep?”

“I was studying a very ancient tome of magic. Its words become clear for only a few hours before dawn. So I needed to stay up in order to be able to read it. They call it the Nocte Mysterium, but it deals with every plant that blooms in the dark and where to find them. Some have healing properties that are quite unique. It’s pure coincidence that I was settled at the House of the Red Hands when you needed my services.”

“I find the Universe is rarely so lazy. We are drawn together for a reason, Maester Gregory. That reason will make itself known in due course, if indeed there is any other than your saving my life.” Mycroft paused. “I am surprised that the Red Hands could not help me...” 

“They tried, but they didn't pick up on all the symptoms.”

“Unfortunately I recall some of them.”

“Hm. You had most of them. Vomiting, palor, severe headache, trembling, breathing problems, fits, and a rash, classically across the chest, like a scaly pattern. Quite textbook, in your case.” 

“What did you do? I presume that there is an antidote?”

“Yes, of a sort. I have been using my time with the Hands well, and not just studying ancient dusty tomes that only reveal their secrets at dawn. I have been distilling some of my own cures. However, I combine my healing with pressure points that trigger the body to heal itself.”

“You pressed your fingers to my arm when I said I might be sick?”

“Yes, that was it.”

“Never heard of it. However one cannot deny the results.”

“Oh, I learned it in Essos, a long time ago. It is almost a lost art, there are so few people who perform it correctly. I regret not being able to teach. They don’t trust me, you see. I might corrupt the young ones and make them think they can avoid the oaths.” 

“Would you?”

“Would I corrupt the young?” The brown eyes twinkled. “Unless you consider freedom of thought and a healthy ambition to do well at one’s studies corrupt. I told you I don’t agree with celibacy. I think it makes for a cruel existence and distracts from one’s studies. Considering this is an enforced life for some, I also believe acolytes should be older when they take the vows, not thirteen. I tried to persuade the Elders to introduce a lay-membership, whereby lads could learn and decide if the life was for them before taking the oaths. So far, they won’t bend. They’re scared, I think. Scared of people using them to learn and then leaving. Some might, but others might find it the life they want. I know a lot of the community chose this life, chose their vows. Indeed, were it not for that particular oath, I actually like this role my life has settled into, so why should they feel threatened?”

“Forgive me, but you are as naive as you are knowledgeable,” Mycroft smiled. 

“You think?”

“I know. You have to play the game, Maester Gregory. The powers that be do not like being lectured by someone young and rebellious. It unsettles them. They do not like being faced with change either. They like to think they have come up with the idea themselves. It is a game to seed ideas and see who takes them up, and to suggest and manipulate and direct toward your goal from behind the scenes. There would be a way to seek your goal but not in such a direct manner, no matter how much sense you think you are making. My way is longer, but ultimately more successful.” 

“Perhaps I need instruction…”

“I would be more than willing to... _instruct_ you.” Some implication hung heavy in the air for a moment, then vanished in the aether as if it had never existed. Although for a brief second both men knew that it had, and pondered. 

**0000000**

Progress was slow, at least as far as Mycroft was concerned. He hated the enforced reliance on another being for his care, but it was unavoidable. The carer was, however, more than agreeable.

"How are you today?" The bright smile had become something to look forward to. Mycroft knew he would regret the time when it wasn't there any more. "Nearly well, I think? I know it's taking a while but...you'll get there. Better than yesterday?"

“Much, thank you. I...your care of me...has been...exemplary. You will leave when I am completely well?” Mycroft knew his tone was coloured with regret.

“I have to return to the Red Hands. Haven't finished studying.”

“Must you?”

“Well, I...I do want to finish studying the hidden archive, so I suppose I must. Why?”

“Would you...consider a position here? For the Bank, and myself of course…”

"For the bank?"

"It's employees and their families, perhaps folk from Bravos itself."

“Would you be prepared to offer that to me?”

“I would be prepared to offer much more. Maester Gregory…. Gregory, your presence here, your care of me...I cannot begin to repay you. If a position here would go some way to mitigating my debt to you…”

“You don’t owe me anything. I am a healer, Master Holmes. I do not do this for payment. I do it because my conscience dictates. I didn’t lie when I told you that it this is my calling.” 

“But… your own order does not appreciate what it has….”

“The Knights of the Mind are a law to themselves. They make the rules. We live by them, or not. I am...just a cog in a machine, albeit one that doesn’t fit well. Appreciation doesn’t really come into it. We are supposed to further the cause of the Order, and serve the order and the people. Like any knightly order, I suppose. We have rules and I broke them. Stands to reason they won’t appreciate me.”

“I do. Very much.”

“Thank you. That means a lot. Coming from you. I know you don’t bestow praise lightly.” 

“Mycroft, please. Call me by my given name. You deserve that at least.”

“Mycroft,” Gregory smiled. “Thank you.” 

“I am not a reckless man, Gregory. I make suggestions and offers based upon knowledge, upon data, and upon goals. I know that your presence here would aid the Bank. As its Head, I am sure Tycho would agree. You are a healer, and our people fall sick, and injure themselves, and you are the best healer I know. You could also teach our young folk. I see no reason why not.”

“But the Order…”

“The Order are also indebted to us,” he said, gently. “For their... _consideration_ , concerning yourself and your suggestions, I could be persuaded to...reduce that debt, _significantly._ For their attitude to change, even more.” Gregory’s growing realisation was almost comical. “You mean...you could...well…” He huffed a sigh. “That’s...amazing. You would do _that_ , for _me_?”

“Stay, please. Say you will at least consider my offer.”

“Of course I will...but you have to give me a little time. I mean...it’s a lot to take in.” 

“Time is now something I have in abundance. Although I am hardly a patient man, I do not like to be kept waiting overlong.”

Greg's smile was knowing. Mycroft was again reminded that Maester Gregory was an intelligent man, despite a certain naivety concerning politics. "If I do this, if I agree to your proposition, I'm going to need rooms."

"Rooms? Of course."

"A bedroom, a study, a classroom…"

"A classroom?"

"If I am to offer teaching, then yes."

"Of course. Please, go on."

"I'll need an income, but it won't need to be large. I can charge my pupils, but I'd prefer not to need so much money that I stop people being taught because they cannot afford it."

"An admirable goal."

"I'll need equipment. I envision a small infirmary where treatment is free, in return for allowing my students to practice their skills on the patients. Completely supervised, just as we were at the Citadel, so it would be safe. And I'm not barring it to girls…"

"Women do make excellent nurses."

"Under my training, women will become healers, physicians, not just nurses."

"That is...progressive."

"It makes sense, Mycroft. If a girl can grow up to become a Queen and rule a country, then she can also become a Physician."

Mycroft regarded the man before him, the man who now had a hopeful expression. “You have thought about this already.”

“Yes, I have, many times. I’ve fantasised about the reforms I would make were I an Archmaester. Merely fantasy though. I never considered it would really come to pass.”

"Well then, I agree."

"You do?"

"In principle, yes. I think it is an admirable idea, and I have the _perfect_ place for you."

**0000000**

Gregory looked around the suite of empty rooms speculatively. There was a parlour, a bedroom, with a gardrobe, and a side room complete with a largish shuttered window looking out on the inner court of the bank's own keep. The fortified building on its promontory was impregnable, but it was also well appointed. It had its own water supply and the vaults were set into solid rock. 

“I have another set of unused rooms by the kitchens, they are on the lower levels. Not hard to access from the main court. One could be your classroom, another a small infirmary. I envision great things, Gregory, if you choose to take the chance. My cousin is in agreement, it will enhance our lives here, having a master healer on hand.”

Greg smiled. “A chance is what I’ll have to take,” he said gently. “Thank you, Mycroft. This is...a wonderful opportunity.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you for accepting the offer. Of course you can still study with the Hands, in their library. I also have a donation to make to your cause. We have many books in our own library, an investment the Bank made a few centuries ago. But what use are books if not used. The tomes of lesser worth can live with you, and find use, furthering the knowledge of the students. How would that be?”

“Wonderful, Mycroft. Beyond words...You are...amazing. Truly.” Impulsively, Gregory leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s. The man stumbled back, and would have tipped over had Gregory not grabbed him and held on. “Sorry…” he stuttered. “I am so sorry...I…”

“No, please, do not apologise. I do not find you repulsive. Please…” Mycroft grabbed Gregory’s arm and held on. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

“Still, perhaps I should have asked…”

“And spoil the spontaneity of the gesture?” Mycroft was smiling, widely. 

Gregory huffed a small laugh and shook his head. “Seriously, Mycroft. I shouldn’t have…”

“Nonsense. Come here. Allow me.” It was Mycroft’s turn to close the distance, and press his lips to Gregory’s. The kiss was soft, and sweet. “There,” he said, drawing back. Gregory’s eyes were guarded. “If you would be amenable, I would very much like to ask you to join me for dinner tonight. We can discuss our new found… arrangement, over pheasant and quail with a good Volantis red.” 

Gregory chuckled. “Spoken like a true representative of the Iron Bank,” he said. “You make it sound like a transaction.”

“Well, isn’t it? Of a kind. However, a more pleasant transaction I think you might struggle to find.” 

“Come on, Mycroft, it’s cold up here. You shouldn’t be risking your health staying here too long.”

“So, dinner?”

“Yes, very well, dinner,” Gregory said, fondly exasperated. “Now will you come?”

Smiling, Mycroft allowed Gregory to draw him close, and help him out of the rooms and down the corridor toward his own. He had a feeling that he was about to enter into the best transaction of his life. 


End file.
